


Always

by HooksLovelySwan (ChainOfPaperClips)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 17:17:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChainOfPaperClips/pseuds/HooksLovelySwan
Summary: After 16 years of happiness, Tink's counter spell to Regina's Dark Curse has come reckoning--and can only be broken by Princess Emma finding her own True Love. The only problem is... she's never met him yet!





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a two shot story I started writing for my CS Secret Santa, Nerdyhuntress, over on Tumblr. It’s sort of a mashup of Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and 50 First Dates. I hope you enjoy it!

The eve of the Crown Princess' sixteenth birthday was a dismal affair. A fog of melancholy misery had settled over the inhabitants of the palace, but none so deeply as the royal family, who had utterly sequestered themselves in the royal apartments. Huddled together on the end of her parents' bed, as if Emma was still small, and they were but reading her a bedtime story, the little family waited and worried in the dimly lit room for the grandfather clock to strike midnight.

 

"Maybe it won't even matter," Snow comforted her daughter. "Regina's been dead for years."

 

"But Tink isn't dead" Emma pointed out, dully. "It's her spell we're worried about, isn't it? The one she cast over my cradle to mitigate the Dark Curse."

 

She sensed her parents exchange worried looks. Emma wished they wouldn't do that. What use was it to hide anything from her now, when she might never see them again? The least they could do was be honest with each other in what little time they may have left together.

 

"You're right," her mother agreed, when Emma pointed this out. "It's just instinct to want to protect you. You're still our little girl, even if you are growing up."

 

Her father nodded, looking suddenly much older than his scant forty-three years. "You'll always be my little girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss into her mane of curls, "but I'm sorry if I've made it difficult, not wanting to let go. Your mother and I have lived in dread of one curse or another separating you from us, ever since she carried you in her belly."

 

"At least," her mother continued, trying yet to console everyone, even herself, "we had sixteen wonderful years with you first, Emma. You and your father have been the absolute joys of my life. So when we find each other again--" She faltered, a catch in her voice, as she tried to blink back the tears that shone in her eyes.

 

"We will always find each other," David agreed firmly, squeezing his wife's hand.

 

"True Love," Emma whispered. The key that Tink had woven into her counter curse to ensure their separation wouldn't last forever. The memorized words of Tink’s counter spell echoed in her head:

 

_Sweetest princess, fear not your plight,_

_This curse born out of evil spite,_

_Shall stay its wrath for sixteen years--_

_A gift to quell your parents’ tears._

_Separated from family you shall be,_

_But not for all eternity._

_Upon the stroke of midnight that awaits,_

_Princess Emma shall abide in other fates._

_Through these realities she shall drift,_

_‘Til she finds the key, her True Love, to shift_

_The flow of time, and then awake--_

_Only then will this faerie spell break._

 

She just needed to find her parents again, Emma assured herself, and make them remember. Then everything would return to normal. Emma clung to the thought like a warm cloak, huddling in the illusion of its simplicity. It was the best plan that she had. The only plan. What use was worrying about all the complexities that might be involved, when Emma would experience them all too soon?

 

“I will find you.” She whispered the promise with a nervous glance toward the grandfather clock at the opposite end of the room. Five minutes to midnight. _Five minutes_ until her life, and the lives of everyone in the kingdom, was replaced with some unknown reality. How many lifetimes would they live under the influence of Tink’s spell?

 

_Four minutes._

 

Would the world be much changed when they all returned? What if thousands of years had passed? What if everyone they knew from the neighboring kingdoms was dead?

 

_Three._

 

Maybe an endless cycle of lifetimes wasn’t so bad a notion after all. Better than returning to loneliness and a world possibly changed beyond all comprehension. Perhaps in that instance, living an illusion would be kinder than returning to reality.

 

_Two more._

 

But no, Emma knew she was too selfish for that, even if she could predict with any certainty what they might find when they returned to reality again. She needed her parents—couldn’t fathom a lifetime without them. And now she was being forced to endure just that, perhaps many times over. If there was a way to get them back, she would do it, regardless of cost.

 

_One—_

 

Emma held her breath as the minute hand moved into position. The clock started to chime out its song, and she felt her parents’ hands squeeze her own. Warm, sticky tears slid down her cheeks. She felt her mother’s long, slender fingers combing through her hair, the press of her father’s lips against her temple—

 

BONG!

 

The clock struck once, startling them all. Emma’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

 

BONG!

 

She drew one shuddering breath and closed her eyes, bracing herself for the unknown.

 

BONG!

 

BONG!

 

BONG!

 

She cracked an eye open. Nothing had changed. Maybe her mother had been right…

 

BONG!

 

Snow laughed softly, relaxing next to Emma. “Thank all the Powers that be!”

 

BONG!

 

Her parents showered her with kisses and murmurings of relief and affection. Emma smiled, enjoying the simple, fervent affection for once, rather than simply tolerating it.

 

BONG!

 

“I’m going to look outside,” Emma said suddenly. “I want to make sure everything’s normal with my own eyes.”  She slid off the bed and ran toward the balcony. Relieved didn’t even begin to cover what she was feeling.

 

BONG!

 

She threw back the sash that covered the arched doorway and pried the door open. Inhaling the cool night air, Emma laughed. Everything was normal, she reassured herself, gazing down at the courtyard where the sentries stood watch like they always did. Everything was all right!

  
BONG!

The torchlight blurred before her eyes. Emma felt her own heart drop out of her chest.

 

BONG!

_No,_ she thought with desperation, turning on her heel. _No!_

  
BONG!

 

The last gong of the clock reverberated mockingly in her ears, and her surroundings began to spin. Gritting her teeth against the bile that rose in her throat, Emma staggered toward her parents' anguished cries. Her foot struck something hard and she tripped, falling, falling, falling... until the sensation became meaningless, and there was only a void of dark nothingness all around.

-/-

Emma shifted on the stone bench, inhaling the scent of roses that perfumed the air. Tilting her chin upward, she smiled as the sunlight warmed her face, relieved to get away from the noise of all the guests crowding Llynford Manor. It wasn’t that she was ungrateful for the birthday celebration that was being thrown to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow, but Emma knew quite well that it was, at its heart, primarily a match-making endeavor on Lady Llynford’s part. Why her mother insisted on forcing the issue, Emma didn’t understand; she’d come to terms long ago with the fact that marriage was an improbable dream for her. Emma only wished her mother would.

“Lady Emmaaaa!”

She turned her head toward the distant sound with a groan. Her mother had sent one of the younger cousins looking for her again.

Emma heard the scrape of a shovel as David, one of the gardening staff, and one of her very few friends, struck it into the earth. “You can’t hide from them forever,” he said pragmatically, as the smell of freshly turned soil wafted into her nostrils.

Emma frowned. She wasn’t hiding…exactly. It wasn’t as if her frequent visits to the garden were a secret. Still, he was right. She couldn’t escape forever. (Or for very long, it seemed.) And her mother would be upset with her for being impolite. Emma wasn’t trying to be rude, though; she just hadn’t been able to take it anymore. With all of the noise and people (most of them virtual strangers to her), she’d started to feel as though the walls were closing in on her, and had thus made her escape.

“Lady Emma?”

The softer voice of her childhood friend was more welcome. The Marchioness of Blanchley, known to Emma since childhood as simply “Mary-Margaret,” had always understood Emma’s need for independence and occasional solitude, even before the carriage accident that had taken Emma’s vision at seven years of age, and killed her younger brother. And she’d understood it still better, this need not to be coddled, when she’d been dealt her own tragic blow; widowed scarcely a year into her marriage, and having produced no heirs, Lady Blanchley had been forced to return to her sole surviving family, her brother, the Duke of Neverton.

But it seemed that even her oldest friend could not reason with Emma’s mother, if she’d been reduced to searching for Emma.

Emma heard shoes clop slowly down the stone steps leading into the garden, drawing the attention of the mastiff that lay at her feet. Resting her fingers on his shoulders, Emma quietly reassured the dog and stood up to meet her friend.

“There you are!” Mary-Margaret said with evident relief as she walked up to Emma. “Mr. Granger,” she greeted David in a different, carefully courteous tone.

A strange sort of shiver passed through Emma as Mary-Margaret and David exchanged polite pleasantries; she felt out of place, disoriented—almost as if she were someone else, looking in at her own life and finding it a poor fit. _None of this is real_ , she realized with growing panic. Mary-Margaret, Emma felt certain, was someone else entirely. Someone with infinitely closer ties to her than a visiting childhood friend. Someone more… motherly…

 _Mother!_ Emma realized with a jolt, waking fully from the lull of the spell. Mary-Margaret was her mother, whose real name was Snow. And David, this gardener that so often offered her refuge and companionship, was her father.

Fragmented memories of her last moments with her parents crowded her head. Where was she? _When_ was she? How long had she been under the influence of Tink’s spell?

Memories warred with each other in her head, each identity attempting to assert itself as dominant, and Emma struggled to make sense of it all.

“Mother?” she whispered tentatively.

“The Lady Llynford?” came Mary-Margaret’s puzzled reply. “You wish me to fetch her? Are you unwell?”

Of course, Emma realized, feeling foolish. Snow didn’t remember anything. Why should she? She supposed it was too much to hope for that her father remembered, either. For all intents and purposes, her parents _were_ a widow and a gardener until Emma could figure out how to wake them up and break the spell.

“No,” she faltered, “I thought— Is she very angry with me?”

“Not exactly,” Mary-Margaret said slowly, “Lady Eleanor managed to convince her that you were hiding on purpose, for a game. Everyone’s trying to find you first.” She paused, and her voice was brighter when she continued, “I guess that makes me the winner.”

Emma smiled. Trust her mother to put the brightest face on any situation in any reality.

“I’m afraid we must return to the house,” Mary-Margaret began with regret, turning her attention back to Emma. “Lady Llynford will grow suspicious if we delay overlong, and no one else is able to find you.”

“Rex,” Emma said to the dog at her feet, “come on, boy. Let’s go inside.” Laying her hand on the shoulders of the enormous mastiff again, Emma let him guide her slowly back to the house. Mary-Margaret followed.

“We should select your gown for the dinner party,” Mary-Margaret said, as they stepped across the threshold and entered the manor.

Opening her mouth to disagree, Emma suddenly thought the better of it. A plan had started to form in her mind, based in large part upon the stiff formality that Mary-Margaret had extended to David in the gardens. A formality that Emma knew, from the false memories in her head, was out of character for her. “All right,” she agreed with feigned reluctance, “if we must. I suppose it will make mother happy for a little while, if she thinks I’m taking her efforts seriously.”

“There is that,” her friend agreed, as they began to climb the staircase. “And,” she said with a moment’s hesitation, “Killian will be here.”

She paused in the middle of the staircase, Rex halting obediently at her side. “Killian.”

The name, although wholly unfamiliar to her ears as anyone she knew from the Enchanted Forest, brought an explosion of false memories to life inside her head. He was Mary-Margaret’s brother, whom Emma had also been close to during childhood. But whereas her relationship with Mary-Margaret had grown closer throughout the years, Emma’s relationship with Killian had gradually grown uncomfortable and distant. Emma didn’t honestly know what had gone wrong between them, couldn’t call up any specific memory from this reality that had caused the distance that was so hard to navigate now. It seemed to have happened by inches, almost without her noticing.

Mary-Margaret had been attempting to repair the rift between them for years.

“It was only right to invite him, after all,” she recovered, talking more to herself than Mary-Margaret. The three of them had been as thick as thieves as children. She couldn’t blame her mother for making the assumption that the connection had held well enough through the years to invite him to an intimate gathering in celebration of Emma’s birthday. And even so, her mother would have invited him out of courtesy, given his rank, and his relationship to Mary-Margaret.

“Certainly,” Mary-Margaret replied with such careful diplomacy that Emma immediately became suspicious and on guard for more scheming. “And anyway, it never hurts to look your best,” she said, switching the conversation back to dinner preparations. “Perhaps,” she said archly, “Prince Charming will even make his intentions known tonight.”

 _If we’re lucky_ , Emma thought with anticipation. _If we’re lucky_.

Despite Lady Llynford’s best (and rather transparent) efforts to draw Emma into a sustained conversation with the Earl of Locksford, she met with disappointment once again. It wasn’t that the Earl was unkind by any means, or even a bore; it was simply that the majority of Emma’s attention was focus on scheming to reunite her real parents with each other.

Killian, to Emma’s surprise and great consternation, seemed to sense the matchmaking that was afoot and managed each time to deflect the focus away from Emma so smoothly that even she almost missed what he was doing.

When he offered to escort her to the gardens with the other ladies after dinner, rather than linger over his Port with the other gentleman, Emma decided to take him into her confidence in spite of their awkward history. She needed an accomplice in her mischief tonight, if she was to be successful in setting up her parents for a True Love’s kiss to break the curse.

“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully, as he guided her outside, offering quiet information to help her navigate the terrain. “But why help me?” _We haven’t been on the best of terms_. The words were left unspoken, but they both heard them just the same as if they had been said.

“It seemed appropriate,” he said at last. “I’ve been dodging my sister’s attempts at matchmaking for years. Call it a spirit of commiseration, if you will.”

“Ah, yes,” she smiled. “I’ve heard about some of those attempts through the grapevine.”

“By which you mean exaggerated accounts directly from my sister.”

“Well…” she smiled, not quite willing to admit it, but unable to flat out deny it, either.

They chuckled together, and then Emma plunged ahead with her plan. “Killian… I know I’ve no right to ask you this; I’ve no right to ask you anything, but I’m begging for your help.”

He paused near the columbines, their sweet fragrance highlighting the soft evening breeze. “What do you need?” he asked simply.

“How can you ask that?” she frowned. “After all these years of avoiding each other and barely speaking…?”

“I’ve never desired this distance between us,” he said in a gentle tone.

“Then why…?”

“You tell me, Emma. You’ve been putting walls between us for years.”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?” He sounded faintly disappointed. “We were close as children. Closer still as we matured. But the closer we became, the taller you built those walls—as if you were afraid of me.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she protested. “I’m not afraid of you.”

_But you’re afraid of something._

The accusation rang in her head, flustering Emma so that she nearly missed Killian’s inquiries about the type of help she needed. “I—It’s your sister,” she stuttered, trying to put the puzzle of what had soured between her and Killian aside. Whatever had happened between her and the Duke of Neverton was irrelevant. Her parents were what were important. They were her True Love, the key to breaking the curse. She’d found them, and now she needed to wake them up. And the easiest way to do it, Emma remembered, would be True Love’s kiss, which had the power to break any curse.

“It concerns her future happiness,” she continued. “Your sister is…fond of our gardener, Mr. Granger. But I don’t think she’d ever act on it, for fear of disappointing you, and _he_ would never presume to even think he’d captured her affections—”

“Are you proposing to involve me in a matchmaking scheme for my own sister?” Killian interrupted, with a mild note of amusement in his voice.

“You’re not offended?”

“I find it suitably ironic,” he chuckled. “Mary-Margaret made an excellent match in her first marriage, at the behest of my parents; she did it only to please them. The Marquis of Blanchley was far too old for her, not to mention completely unsuited to her disposition. That she was widowed so early into the marriage may have been a kindness from Providence.”

“Then you’ll help me? You consent to this match?”

“You are certain she would be happy?”

Emma frowned, puzzled at his easy acceptance of what she was proposing. “You trust me this much?” she asked in a small voice, feeling ashamed of the way she was taking advantage of this man that held no grudge against her, despite her ill-treatment of him for years. “You are not going to ask if he is a man of good character?” she asked. “Or protest at the lowness of his status, and demand how he proposes to care for her?”

“That you have befriended this gardener speaks volumes about his good character,” Killian replied. “And status is often an empty and inconsequential thing, especially in the face of love. If my sister loves this man and wishes to marry him, I would gladly give my consent and ensure that they want for nothing, materially. So yes, Emma, I trust you—always.”

In hatching plots, the simplest solution is often the most successful path to success. Or so it proved for Emma and Killian, who determined that the best way to engineer the spark that might push Mary-Margaret and David into acting upon their feelings was to gather all of the guests into the gardens and organize a game of Blind Man’s Buff.

They played several rounds of the game without subterfuge, drifting gradually closer to the maze of hedges, where David worked at the close of his day. The longer the game continued, the more the other guests began to drift back to the house for refreshment and rest. When their party had dwindled down to a mere handful of people, and David was watching Mary-Margaret in close proximity from over the hedge tops, Killian quietly nudged the Earl of Locksford into encouraging Mary-Margaret to take her turn being blindfolded.

Emma, who had been strategically waiting near a gap in one of the hedges (she had sat out the game, having a distinct and obvious advantage over the others), listened intently while they spun Mary-Margaret in circles, her laughter punctuating the cool evening air. Killian’s signaling whistle was soft, imperceptible, possibly, to anyone but Emma, whose sensitive ears picked it up with ease. Listening for the crunch of Mary-Margaret’s shoes upon the grass, Emma tensed as the other woman reeled toward her. When she came within reach, Emma gave her mother a firm but gentle push down a gap in the hedge toward David, and held her breath, hoping for the best.

She heard them collide, his apologies mingling with her cry of surprise and breathless giggles. When it became silent several moments later, Emma thought she might fly apart from the tension. What was happening? Had they kissed? Why was nothing happening? Shouldn’t the curse have been broken by now?

“Congratulations,” Killian said softly, joining her where she stood. “I’ve never seen my sister so happy.”

“You mean it worked?”

“Aye. And from the look of things, a special license may be in order, to wed them as soon as possible.”

Emma’s brow drew together. It hadn’t worked. Her parents had kissed and True Love’s kiss hadn’t worked to break the curse. _Why_ hadn’t it worked? Surely they were True Love, meant for each other in every conceivable reality…

“What’s the matter?” Killian inquired, concern pervading his voice. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” she whispered. “It’s just…” She cast about for some excuse to explain away her conflicted feelings, and seized upon the one that was actually the truth, at least in part. “I can’t see it. I wish… I wish I could see it.”

Warm, strong fingers clasped her own, and Killian began to describe the happy flush of his sister’s cheeks, and the glowing, besotted manner in which David beheld Mary-Margaret; they way they held each other close, tucked into each other like two young saplings twining together to become one; the soft, indistinct murmurings of the new lovers as they undoubtedly planned their future together.

A tear slid down Emma’s cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, releasing his hands. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Killian, though I haven’t deserved it.”

“Been? Are we to say goodbye, now that your mission is accomplished?”

He stepped closer, and Emma tensed, though she couldn’t have said why. “Of course not,” she insisted. “It was a mistake to let our friendship grow cold, whatever the cause. I hope that—I hope that we can continue to be friends.”

He pressed a kiss against her forehead. “No, my love, we cannot. I do not wish for only your friendship.”

 _Love?_ Emma’s heart quavered with fear.

“I fear you gave into the notion, long ago, that you can never have the same life that others do. You see yourself as defective—a lost girl that no one really wants; that doesn’t really belong anywhere. You’ve so convinced yourself that no man would want a woman who cannot see--”

“Because they don’t,” she interrupted. “Heaven knows I’ve been introduced to and then snubbed by enough men throughout the years to know that!”

“ _I_ would,” he said softly. “I’ve loved you since we were children.”

Emma inhaled sharply.

“Deep down, I think you knew it as well as I. But whenever I tried to express myself, or broach the subject of marriage, you pushed me away and built up those walls of yours… until the point that you barely spoke to me at all.”

“Killian, I—I don’t know what to say.” And she didn’t. She felt real affection for this man who had helped bring her parents together again, even if it hadn’t woken them from the curse, but she knew nothing real about him that hadn’t been manufactured by a curse. He wasn’t real. None of this was real. Any real feeling he felt for her was an illusion. He couldn’t love her. Not really.

And what of her True Love, the one who awaited her someday when she returned to the Enchanted Forest? Emma had never met him yet. It simply wasn’t fair to herself or to Killian to create any emotional attachments that they might regret upon the breaking of the curse.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“Then you do not feel the same.” She heard the pain in his voice and hated herself for causing it.

“No, Killian, I _care_ for you,” she said desperately, wanting to make him understand, “but I _can’t_ —You don’t understand—”

“I suspected as much,” he continued, “but I needed to hear you say it. I wish you every happiness, Emma, and I hope that someday you feel differently about it…for your own sake.”

She felt the warm sear of his lips as he pressed another kiss on her forehead, and felt a lump form in her throat. She heard the soft crunch of grass as he walked away to join the others, and Emma didn’t know whom she hated more in that moment—Regina for attempting to cast the Dark Curse in the first place, Tink for casting a counter curse that carried a far heftier emotional price than Emma had even imagined, or herself for hurting arguably the first lover she’d ever had, illusion or not.

She wished she’d never woken from Tink’s spell at all.

-/-

Emma’s spirits lifted slightly as she stepped into Heavenly Grounds, inhaling the heady, bitter aromas that pervaded it. Unwinding her scarf, she stomped the snow from her boots and looked around the coffee shop with curiosity. The atmosphere was inviting enough, Emma admitted to herself as she ran a cursory hand through her almond-brown locks. Decorated in muted shades of red, orange, and brown, the shop somehow managed to convey the cozy feeling of sitting by a fireside, despite its contemporary, eclectic décor. She could understand now why it always seemed so busy when she drove by in the wee hours of the morning.

Although the coffee shop had opened across from the hospital last spring, Emma had always been too busy to frequent it. Forced to settle for the watery (and often cold) dreck the hospital called coffee during the insanity of her shifts, the promise of a real cup of coffee and some time to sit down and rest heartened Emma.

She sobered again when she saw the crowded tables and the long lines of people waiting to place their orders. Choking back an irritated groan, Emma took her place at the end of a queue and scrounged for her phone. At least she could finish her Christmas shopping for her foster mom and brother while she waited.

A pair of leather boots for Ingrid, and a skateboard for Leo later, Emma emerged from the line with an enormous mocha latte, topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. She scanned the room, dismayed to see that the tables were all as crowded as ever. No, she realized after a moment. Not _all_ the tables. Not the one in the farthest corner, with the dark-haired man half-hidden behind the garishly decorated Christmas tree. How had _he_ managed to procure a table all for himself? Well, no matter, she thought, bracing herself as she marched over. He was going to share one now.

“Excuse me,” she cleared her throat. A pair of startled blue eyes met hers. “Do you mind if I share the table? Everywhere else is more crowded.” He gazed around the café with a critical eye, as if unconvinced, and Emma felt a flash of irritation. “You won’t even know I’m here,” she sighed. “The only thing I’m interested in getting up close and personal with this evening is this cup of coffee.”

“All right, lass,” he agreed with the trace of an accent, scrubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw, “far be it from me to deny anything to a lady in need.”

Snorting, Emma set her coffee down on the table, and maneuvered into the booth across from him. She slouched against the back of it and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling the full effects of her exhaustion. Her shift at the hospital had been brutal, and the only thing she really wanted to do now was go home and sleep for a week straight, but it wasn’t to be. Her best friend, Mary-Margaret was picking her up in an hour for a holiday party that she was throwing at her apartment that evening, and Emma didn’t have the heart to cancel on her, no matter how tired and irritated she was feeling.

“Long day?”

“I told you, I’m just here for the coffee,” she sighed. “So don’t feel obligated to make small talk or anything.”

“Aye, but if I wished to?”

Opening her eyes, she stared at him with suspicion. “Why?”

His answering expression was decidedly strange—a mixture of bashfulness and cynicism. “Chalk it up to the holiday season,” he finally said, “and memories of Christmas past.”

What on earth was that supposed to mean? Emma wondered with confusion.

“So tell me,” he continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the awkward pause, “how’s your residency going?”

“My what?” Her brows drew together in suspicion. “How did you know I’m a resident? Have we met before?” Emma scrutinized the man in front of her. There _was_ something familiar about his rumpled dark hair and voice, but she’d written it off almost before she’d noticed it. He’d just reminded her of someone she knew in medical school or something, she told herself. Now Emma wondered if she really had known him back in medical school.

“You could say that.” His blue eyes twinkled merrily, and Emma drew in a sharp breath as a dreadful suspicion began to dawn on her. He pulled the neck of his sweater over the lower half of his face. “Ho, ho, ho!” he laughed.

“Oh shit!” she blurted out, “You’re _that_ guy?!”

Emma felt herself grow very red in the face. She wanted to die in embarrassment. It hadn’t been her finest hour, making out with Santa in a dark, cramped closet on the pediatric ward last year, but it had been Christmas Eve, and he’d been so great with all of the kids, and his accent had been so sexy, Emma hadn’t been able to fight the attraction to him. They’d been trading gazes with each other all night, and when it was time for Emma to escort “Santa” back to the North Pole, the flirting had ensued and then quickly escalated to their little side trip into a janitor’s closet. And it could have easily gone further, if she hadn’t been paged by Dr. Stein before she could do something foolish, like invite the hot Santa home later.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” he teased, with a grin that was both playful and sincere. “I’m only sorry I didn’t manage to get your number before you ran away like Cinderella.”

“I had to get back to work,” she muttered, feeling like a bit of an idiot. She’d felt guilty about that later, running off without so much as a word of apology or explanation, but she hadn’t known how to find him again without knowing his name or specialty, and she’d been too humiliated to ask around by describing him to anyone else. So, Emma had done what she did best: put him out of her mind and forgotten all about him.

Well, mostly…except for a stray thought now and then…whenever she treated a cute little kid.

“So I gathered, when your pager went off,” he said wryly. “But you disappeared before I could even get your name.” He paused, as if considering his next words. “Or give you mine. It’s Killian, by the way. Killian Jones.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. She knew that name. _Everyone_ knew that name—at least if they worked in the Boston Metro area medical field. Killian Jones was one of the top surgery residents working in his field, and known to have an eye toward the specialty of pediatric surgeon. Rumor had it that his fellowship at the hospital was all but officially assured, should he decide to stay on; but with his impressive resume of credentials and accomplishments, Emma suspected he could pretty much take on a fellowship anywhere he pleased.

“Ah, so you’ve heard of me,” he said with a self-conscious smile. “Well—the rumors are greatly exaggerated. I haven’t singlehandedly saved half the children in the NICU, or cured cancer--”

But he had saved a toddler’s life, Emma thought, remembering the story that had circulated the hospital. Killian had been the one to diagnose the diabetic ketoacidocis and get him treatment when his frantic parents brought him to the ER. And anyone who had seen how Killian had interacted with the kids in the pediatric ward at Christmas last year knew it didn’t matter a whit that he hadn’t cured cancer. He’d given them hope and laughter when they’d needed it most. And that, Emma felt, was far more precious.

“Anyway, I still don’t know your name,” Killian said after an awkward pause. “And I’d really like to know whom I’m speaking with, if she’ll oblige me.”

“Emma Swan,” she offered with a shy smile.

“Well, then, would you like to have dinner with me sometime, Emma? I’d like to know you better.”

“I would,” she found herself saying, quite in opposition to her usual instinct to refuse. Killian Jones was different. He wasn’t some self-absorbed, career-driven opportunist who would step on anyone in his way to reach the top. He’d genuinely cared about every one of those kids she’d seen him interact with last Christmas. And Emma wanted to give herself the opportunity to know him better.

“What does your schedule for next week look like?” he wanted to know.

“Actually—”

“Emma!”

The familiar sound of her friend’s voice sent a chill up Emma’s spine, and something ignited in her brain. Mary-Margaret. Lady Blanchley. Her mother— A mixture of memories bubbled to the surface, snarling together until Emma could hardly distinguish one reality from another. “I—uh,” she blinked, scrounging for her cell phone. “Let me give you my number. We’ll work something out.” Emma rattled off her digits, watching as Killian programmed it into his phone.

“Oh! Hello!” Mary-Margaret said brightly as she arrived at their table. “I’m Mary-Margaret, Emma’s best friend!”

Killian shook her outstretched hand, offering pleasantries in reply, and Emma’s eyes widened slightly. She knew that voice. Remembered that voice. He was—or had been—the Duke of Neverton. And if he was here, and her mother was here, and they had all been drawn here to this same spot, that also meant that her father must be somewhere in the vicinity. And she had to find him. Had to get her parents to meet and fall in love and share True Love’s kiss… Only it hadn’t worked last time. _Why_ hadn’t it worked last time?

“I have to be going,” Emma explained softly, wishing she didn’t have to run out on this version of Killian again. He’d been a good friend to her in the last reality, even if he’d wanted more than she could give him, and Emma knew that if she could linger longer in this reality, she and this Killian would become good friends, too. And she desperately needed good friends. But right now, she needed her parents back even more.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promised, standing up as Emma scooted out of the booth. “Let me escort you to the door.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling awkward as Mary-Margaret had nonchalantly managed to slip ahead, leaving them alone to face each other when they reached the door. Emma had a sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t be able to keep the date she’d agreed to before waking from the spell. Perhaps, she reflected sadly, it was just as well.

“Hey! They’re standing under the mistletoe!” a kid crowed suddenly, much to the embarrassment of his mother, who tried to shush him. “Ewwwww!”

Emma and Killian glanced up at the decoration as one. Killian looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks and ears were flushed, and it was clear from his body language that while he wanted to kiss her, he also wanted to be a gentleman; he wasn’t going to ask anything of her that she wasn’t comfortable with, tradition or no tradition.

Touched by his consideration, Emma surged up on the tips of her toes and planted a kiss on one of his flushed cheeks. He deserved better than being caught up in the undertow her problems; he had a life beyond this spell… perhaps a lover. She owed it to him, to all of her subjects, to return them to the Enchanted Forest. And for that, she needed to figure out a way to wake her parents.

And yet, as Emma said goodbye and walked away with her best friend, she couldn’t help but feel as if she had missed an opportunity… that somehow she’d lost her way, and turned right when she should have turned left.

-/-

She awoke to the scent of wood and tar. Sensing, even in her barely conscious state, that she’d failed to break the curse once again, Emma groaned, burying her face in the sheets of the lumpy bed she lay in. The rock of the ship nearly lulled her back into sleep, but the discontented moan from somewhere above startled Emma back into consciousness with a vengeance. Emma sat up, throwing back the woolen blanket, nearly cracking her head open on the wooden frame of the bed above her. A small lantern hung from a metal ring in the ceiling, dimly illuminating the cramped, simple interior of a ship’s cabin.

Easing out of her bunk, Emma stood cautiously and turned to examine the bed above hers. Dark, flowing hair crowned the leather-and-fur clad figure who lay sprawled on her stomach in the bed, and Emma felt a vague sense of recognition. Something about her seemed familiar, but Emma couldn’t quite place what it was. Perhaps if she could get a better look…

The door to the cabin opened suddenly, startling her. A tall, shadowy figure filled the doorframe, and Emma relaxed. With a flash of intuition she didn’t altogether understand, Emma knew exactly who the masculine form belonged to.

“You’re up.”

Killian stepped forward into the dim light of her cabin, but it was Killian as she’d never imagined seeing him. He wore red vest (which was only half-buttoned and exposed a generous patch of chest hair that Emma had a difficult time tearing her gaze from) and form-fitting leather trousers; the pommel of his sword glinted from underneath a long, black leather coat, catching the light from the brown scabbard that was buckled low on his waist. He wore a hard expression on his face, the gentle understanding she was used to seeing in blue his eyes replaced by a weary, embittered resignation. Whatever events the spell had thus far put him through—or made him believe he’d been through--they had changed him from the openly trusting versions of the man she’d known so far.

“Killian?” she whispered, staring in shock at the haunted man before her.

His sharp gaze met hers. “How did you come to know that name?” he inquired harshly. A flash of something silver glinted in the poor lantern light, and Emma’s eyes widened as she saw him lift the large, cruel hook that was attached to the end of his left arm. She felt the press of its cool metal beneath her chin as he tilted it upward. Suspicion radiated from his gaze. “Are you working with the Crocodile?”

“I—I don’t know who that is, I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling the inexplicable urge to cradle his face in her hands and reassure him. Emma felt instinctively that whatever he’d been through, he must still be Killian underneath it, just as she was still Emma in every incarnation. “I’m not working with anybody.”

She felt a jolt of surprise at that thought, realizing that for the first time, she’d entered her new reality fully aware, without anything triggering her to wake from the spell.

“For your sake, darling, I hope that’s true; it’s a fool that would bargain with the demon, even to defeat the Evil Queen.” He pulled back, and Emma watched him study her with consternation, as if she were a puzzle he hadn’t the slightest idea how to solve. “How do you know that name?” he demanded again.

“Isn’t that your name?” she countered. Their surnames and circumstances had changed through each reality, but their general names and identities had so far remained the same.

“You may call me ‘Hook,’” he ordered firmly. “Captain Hook. And I’m accustomed to being given answers when I ask a question.”

Ignoring his harsh tone, Emma decided to simply tell the truth. He had no cause to believe her, but she had nothing to lose by doing so. “I know it because we are friends,” she answered softly, reaching for him without thinking. Killian stared at her, disbelief written all over his face as her hand settled against the stubble of his cheek. “I know you cannot remember it,” she whispered, as he stared down at her with a transfixed expression, “I know it seems crazy… but we have known each other in other lifetimes. And in one of those lifetimes, you told me that you trusted me,” she pressed on, “ _always_. Trust me now, Killian. Trust that I’m telling you the truth.”

A moan issued from the upper bunk again, and Killian seemed to shake himself from whatever reverie he’d entered at her words. “And what advantage would the friendship of an exiled princess and a bandit queen hold for a pirate captain?” he inquired with the faintest trace of something that didn’t quite manage to be a sneer.

Exiled princess? Emma glanced back at the bunks. _Of course_ , she realized. Hadn’t Snow often told Emma tales of her banditry when Regina had exiled her from the kingdom? Was she now seeing a snippet of what her life might have been like if Snow had never taken back the kingdom from Regina? But if Snow was her still her mother in this reality, and she was still a princess—exiled or not—then where was her father? What had happened to separate them? And would it be easier for them to realize their True Love in this reality and awaken from the spell if she reunited them again? Why hadn’t they realized it already?

Emma searched her memories for anything implanted by the curse, some context as to what she was doing on a ship, and where her father was, but nothing came to mind. It set her ill at ease that the pattern had changed, _and_ Killian had changed. Were the two phenomena related?

She turned back to Killian. He was watching her with a confused sort of interest, as if he didn’t know quite what to do with her. Emma felt a commiserating sort of sympathy for him. Tink had a lot to answer for when Emma finally returned to the Enchanted Forest, good intentions or not. Couldn’t she have at least ensured that innocent bystanders weren’t drawn into the heart of the counter curse? “No advantage,” she said, “except the pleasure of each other’s company.”

His eyes darkened with interest. “Well now,” he said, drawing close, “if it’s the pleasure of my company you seek, darling…” He curled a lock of her golden hair around a ringed finger, and Emma shivered at his close proximity, torn between the impulse to surge up on her toes and kiss him, just to see what he tasted like, and the knowledge that it might hurt them both irreparably if she did. “…perhaps, we can work something out.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she managed. “You’re not yourself right now. Neither am I, for that matter. It wouldn’t be right.”

“A pity,” he murmured, releasing the lock of hair, “but certainly less complicated when I hand you over to Regina.”

“What?” Emma stared at him, unable to believe her own ears. How could the considerate man she’d come to know in other realities—the one who’d trusted her implicitly, even when she hadn’t deserved it—betray her to the likes of Regina? “But we’re friends,” she protested sadly, unable to reconcile the Killian who stood before her now with the Killians she’d known in the other realities.

“So you say,” he agreed. “But I’ve no memory of it, nor any proof. I agreed to parley with the queen, and it’s a meeting I intend to keep.”

Emma thought fast as he turned toward the door. She was handling this all wrong. Whatever had happened to shape this Killian into the scoundrel he was now, there must be something of the Killians she’d known, left underneath. She just had to uncover it again. But the only way to do that was to meet this Killian where he was now—on a playing field he would recognize.

“I challenge you to a duel, Captain,” she blurted at his retreating form. He paused, his hand frozen in mid-air as he reached for the door knob. “Now. Out on deck. If I win, you take me anywhere I want to go to find my father.”

Killian turned to face her with an intrigued expression. “And if I win?” he said archly.

“You take me to Regina and let my mother go.”

“It isn’t you the queen wants.”

“She will if you lead her to believe my mother is dead.”

He leaned against the doorframe, scrutinizing her. “And what is to keep me from simply turning you over to Regina, and then setting her hot on the heels of your mother?”

“Your word as a gentleman. The Killian I’ve come to know is a man of honor. He’d keep his word to me.”

“This Killian you speak of,” he said slowly, his eyes glittering in the darkness, “what makes you certain he still exists?”

“I’m not,” Emma admitted softly. “I’m trusting you, the way you once trusted me.”

“You have my word as gentleman,” he said finally, after a long silence. “No, leave her here,” Killian told her as Emma turned to wake her mother. “It’s kinder to let her sleep, until she gets her sea legs and her stomach settles.”

The duel took place on the main deck of the ship. The crewman gathered to observe, all save for the watchmen; it made Emma a little nervous. Their loyalty, of course, was to their captain. Emma expected that. What she didn’t expect to see were the familiar faces of kindly naval officers she’d known her whole life, serving under a pirate captain. One of them, a stout middle-aged man with muttonchops, presented Killian with a cloth-wrapped bundle and unfurled it to reveal two gleaming cutlasses.

“Lady’s choice,” Killian invited.

Emma studied the swords and then selected the plainest one. The hilt was smaller and unadorned, making it marginally lighter, and easier to wield. Emma was light on her feet; her father had trained her well. Together, with the lighter sword, it might just give her an advantage.

Killian picked up the other sword, and the crewman with the muttonchops scuttled out of the way.

A different crewman wearing a red knit cap stepped forward. “This is a gentleman’s duel,” he announced for the benefit of the audience, “with gentleman’s rules. Any dirty fighting or dishonorable tactics is an automatic loss. First person to draw blood wins.” He gestured to Emma and Killian, who stepped forward, facing each other with grim expressions. “Begin!” he barked, moving back out of the way.

Killian attacked first, bringing his blade in low, as if to catch her off guard. Emma saw it coming in the slight crouch of his stance and dodged out of the way. He recovered quickly, and they circled each other warily. She thrust her blade. Killian parried it, their blades hissing as metal scraped against metal. Emma pulled back, feinting to the left, and then brought her blade in from the right, sweeping it in a horizontal motion. Killian blocked her. The crew cheered.

“Someone has trained you well, Princess,” he said in a quiet, conversational tone, as their blades crossed again. He smirked, “I like a woman who can handle a blade.” Killian’s blue eyes bored into hers. Taking advantage of his distraction, Emma spun and caught him from behind, pulling her blade against his neck.

“Flirting, Captain?” she asked with amusement. “You’ll have to do better than that, if you want to distract me.”

With a sudden tug of his hook against her arm, and shrug of his shoulder, Killian loosened her hold and twisted his body, pulling out of her grasp. “Perhaps.”

“You know what I think?” Emma said, crouching slightly as if to spring at him. “You’re all bluster and no bite.” She feinted again, then brought her blade arcing through the air toward his shoulder. Killian brought his blade to bear just in time, blocking Emma before it could cut through the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, I bite, darling,” he leered, pushing his weight against their crossed blades, “in all the right places.”

Emma stumbled backwards, short of breath, catching herself against the main mast. Killian pressed his advantage and attacked, forcing Emma to duck and use the mast to deflect the blow. His sword cut a notch in the wood, and he swore, irritated.

“I don’t know what made you like this, Killian,” Emma told him quietly as they resumed their duel, to the excited shouting of the crewman. “and changed you so drastically, but it doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to carry the pain by yourself anymore.”

“What, and unburden myself to you?” he said in a mocking tone that Emma sensed was aimed at himself, rather than her.

“Yes,” she said, parrying his attack. “That’s what friends do.”

“Friends,” he said in a tone that didn’t quite manage to be derisive, but only sounded lost and sad, “either live to betray you or die. I’ve no use for friends anymore.”

Emma, surprised at his tone and the brutal honesty of his words, stumbled backwards, losing her grip on her sword. It clattered onto the deck, and slid out of her grasp with the next rock of the ship. Killian stood over her, his expression grim, and Emma braced herself for the swift cut of his sword.

Killian threw down his sword and thrust a ringed hand down at her instead. Emma stared at it for several long moments, and then accepted it gratefully. Killian drew her to her feet, steadying her with the crook of his arm. Another rock of the ship pitched Emma forward against the warmth of his chest. She pulled back, embarrassed, and locked gazes with him.

The raw intensity of the pain and self-loathing, co-mingled with desire and longing that she saw reflected in their depths broke her heart. Her resolve wavered. She was coming to care for Killian a great deal. In different circumstances, Emma thought she might even let herself come to love him. But she couldn’t take advantage of such a vulnerable soul, manipulated and caught up in the sphere of a curse that had nothing to do with him.

“Leave,” he told her hoarsely, releasing her after several long moments. “We’ll reach port in the early hours of the morning. Take your mother and leave before dawn. If anyone from the marina sees you, we’ll never be able to convince Regina you escaped.”

She nodded once, holding his gaze again. “Thank you,” she said, and smiled softly.

He said nothing, but Emma thought she saw the haunted expression in his eyes soften a fraction in response.

On impulse, she slipped the opal ring from her right ring finger and pressed it into his hand. “Take it,” she insisted, when he leveled her with a questioning gaze. “So you remember—” Emma backed away quickly, unable to speak around the lump that was forming in her throat. She turned, shielding him from the tears that were threatening in her eyes, not wanting to burden him further with her own pain, and hastened back to the cabin to wake her mother. Somehow, she had to find a way to break this curse—and soon. The collateral damage was simply too much to bear.


End file.
